Time After Time
by rebecca-in-blue
Summary: "What if Alma wasn't happy that he'd come back to her loop? What if she didn't want to see him again?" Sirius pays a visit to an old friend and her children.
1. Sirius's Arrival

Even though I should probably be working on the stories that I already have in-progress instead of starting a new one, this plot-bunny just wouldn't leave me alone, so... here we go!

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Sirius blinked and raised one hand to shield his eyes as he emerged from the cave. It had been too long since he'd last paid a visit to Alma's time-loop, and he had almost forgotten that the weather was always perfect here. Back in his time, it was a cold, cloudy February, with patches of snow still on the ground. But here, it was eternally a warm, late-summer day bathed in cheery yellow sunlight, the sky a candy blue – no trace of winter, no signs of Dementors or Death-Eaters, nothing at all of the war-weary world that he'd left behind him.

He stretched his arms wide, his back sore from walking in a crouch through the cave that lead into Alma's loop, and took a deep breath, soaking in the salty sea breezes and the sound of the surf. "Way too long," he muttered.

The path that led out to Alma's house on the edge of the island was still there, not far from the cave. Sirius was tempted to run the whole way, but he forced himself to walk, rehearsing what he would say and trying to imagine Alma's reaction when they saw each other again. Dumbledore had suggested he send her an owl that he was coming, but he was glad now that he hadn't. She would be so surprised at seeing him, and her children would be glad to have a visitor. He must remember to call her _Miss Peregrine_ in front of them, and to not answer any questions they might ask him about his time. Alma didn't allow her children to discuss the outside world.

He wondered how many children Alma might have now. _Let's see, Molly Weasley's got seven, and Alma probably has at least that many._

His breath caught in his chest when he rounded a corner in the path, the trees parted, and Alma's house came into view. It was as just as he remembered – as big and grand as Grimmauld Place, but far more welcoming, in cheery red brick with wide windows to let in the sunshine, surrounded by a garden of blooming flowers. He could practically hear the ticking of the gold Time-Turner that Alma always wore around her slender waist.

He had planned to surprise her, but Sirius was the one who was surprised, as he was walking through the garden towards the house and a boy suddenly sprang out from behind a bush. "Delighted to meet you, sir," he said, sticking out one scrawny hand. "I'm Horace. You must be Sirius Black."

Sirius startled, unable to hide his surprise. Alma didn't even know he was coming. How on earth could one of her children be expecting him by name?

"My peculiarity is having prophetic dreams, you see," Horace went on. He had a posh way of speaking that made him sound like a forty-year-old, even though he only looked old enough to be in his second or third year at Hogwarts. "I had one about you coming here a few nights ago."

Horace had a pale complexion and was dressed in knickerbockers and a bow tie, clothes that were old-fashioned even for a time-loop eternally set to 1943. He looked, Sirius realized with a pang of guilt, exactly like the odd sort of boy that he would've bullied back in his Hogwarts days, and he made up his mind to be as nice to Horace as possible.

"Right useful peculiarity," Sirius smiled, shaking Horace's hand. "Glad to meet you, Horace."

Another child joined them as they walked towards the house – a girl with rosy cheeks and two long braids. Her face was smudged with dirt, and her clothes were covered in grass stains. "Fiona," Horace called to her, "this is Sirius Black, the man from my dream."

"I remember," Fiona nodded. "Our ymbryne Miss Peregrine said you two were old friends."

Sirius stopped short. This was an even bigger surprise. "Your... ymbryne?" he repeated, wondering if he'd misheard her.

Horace frowned, puzzled. "Of course," he said. "Who else would be taking care of peculiar children but an ymbryne?"

Fiona narrowed her eyes and looked at him sideways. "Aren't _you_ peculiar?" she asked suspiciously, but before Sirius could answer, Horace scoffed and said, "Don't be silly, Fiona, he _has_ to be peculiar, or he couldn't have entered our loop."

"Well," Fiona huffed, "he acts like he doesn't even know what ymbrynes are."

"I know what ymbrynes are," Sirius said quickly. "I just... never mind."

He couldn't tell these children that what he _didn't_ know was how they believed that Alma was a mere ymbryne, not a witch. Had she been living a lie all these years, passing as peculiar instead of magical? Had she never done any real magic around these children? The thought made him want to punch something – Alma Peregrine, one of the most talented witches in Britain, giving up magic just to masquerade as an ymbryne and take care of a bunch of peculiar children that nobody else wanted.

He was distracted from his thoughts when he noticed Horace and Fiona both staring at him, and he realized that he was brooding and making them suspicious. He quickened his pace and said briskly, "It's been too long since I paid a visit to Al – to Miss Peregrine. How many children has she got now?"

"There are eleven of us," Horace answered. "Me, Fiona, Enoch, Olive, Emma, Hugh, Millard, the twins, Bronwyn, and Claire."

Sirius just nodded, but inside, he was reeling. Eleven children! He knew Alma, and he had no doubts that she ran a very tight ship with them, but personally, _he_ would rather take his chances with Dementors and Inferi than have sole responsibility for eleven children.

As they came closer to the house, Sirius noticed the abundance of flowers. There were blossoms in every color, everywhere – overspilling boxes at the windows, climbing up the walls of the house, filling the flowerbeds outside. Sirius's head fairly swam with the rich scent of them. His old Herbology professor at Hogwarts couldn't have grown more.

"Somebody's peculiarity," he said slowly, looking around at the rainbow of flowers, "must be gardening."

Fiona grinned and gave a little jump, her braids bobbing. "Mine is!" she exclaimed, flattered. "Do you like my flowers? I've grown topiary bushes too, shaped like animals, and a great vegetable garden on the side lawn, and an orchard in the back."

Sirius had a sudden idea. "What's Miss Peregrine's favorite flower? Is it still purple heather?" He had given a bouquet of purple heather to her once – years ago now, but he could still see the tall stalks of deep purple flowers in his hand as he held them out to her.

"White heather," Fiona corrected him.

Sirius's memory seemed to flicker, and he frowned, puzzled... but quickly dismissed it. "Can you grow me some of those?" he asked Fiona. "I really shouldn't have shown up here with nothing to give her."

Fiona didn't answer, but she smiled and spread one hand out over the ground. Even Sirius, who had seen and done more magic than he could remember, was impressed by how quickly a white heather plant sprang up out of the grass and into bloom. He made a note to ask Alma later if she was sure that this girl was only a peculiar, and not a full-fledged witch. But how in Merlin's name would he ever get a word alone with Alma if she had eleven children now?

The flowers trembled slightly in his hand as he mounted the steps to the front porch. What if Alma wasn't happy that he had come? After all, he had so many enemies in the magical world – he was the blood-traitor that all the Death Eaters hated – and the safety of her children was more important to Alma than anything. She was more protective of them than Madame Pince was of her precious library books. Besides, the two of them hadn't seen each other since before he was imprisoned, and even though they'd been exchanging owls since he escaped, Sirius was painfully aware that he wasn't the same person he had been before Azkaban.

Sirius was suddenly so nervous that his voice deserted him, but Horace pushed open the front door and called, "Miss Peregrine, the fellow from my dream is here."

There were footsteps, then the door opened wider, and there she was, exactly as he remembered – the same dark blue dress, the color of a peregrine falcon, the same long black fingernails like talons, the same sharp black eyes, the musky smell of her tobacco pipe still clinging to her. _Alma._

For a moment, they simply stared at each other. Sirius knew that he was still handsome, but he also knew that he had a few more wrinkles, a few more gray hairs at his temples, a little more sorrow in his eyes, while Alma's face showed none of the weariness of a magical world at war. One of her children, a little girl with perfect curly ringlets, was clinging to her skirt and peering curiously at Sirius.

Then she smiled, and his nerves vanished. "It's nice to see you again, Sirius."


	2. Meet the Family

I worry that this chapter is kinda boring, but I thought it was important to lay some foundation between these two fandoms and explain how the magical and peculiar worlds coexist.

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"It's nice to see you, too," Sirius answered, holding out the flowers and smiling back at her. It really _was_ nice – nicer than he could ever put into words to know that no matter how many horrible things happened in the magical world, here in Alma's time-loop, things were always the same, always safe, always perfect.

It was nice, but it was frustrating too, because there were so many things that he wanted to say to her, yet so little that he could say in front of her children. All eleven of them were in the front hall now, jostling each other to get a better look at him and whispering excitedly. _"Is that Sirius Black? Finally! Horace had a dream about him days ago."_ Visitors were a rare treat in their time-loop. The youngest children were two curly-haired little girls who couldn't have been more than six, and the oldest ones were two girls and a boy who looked about Harry's age, fifteen or sixteen.

"Children, don't crowd Sirius, please," Miss Peregrine said, waving her hands, and they all sprang apart. Sirius couldn't help startling when he noticed the two little ones in strange white costumes. What in Merlin's name was their peculiarity?

"You picked the perfect day to visit us!" said one boy, about ten, stepping forward again. "Miss Peregrine is taking us all down to the beach today, to go swimming. We're still going, aren't we, Miss Peregrine? May Sirius come with us?"

Sirius tried not to grin. "Yes, may I, Miss Peregrine?" he asked slyly, as if he was one of her children now, too.

Alma's smile had a hint of sadness in it, and as her black eyes rested on his face, he suspected that she hadn't missed those signs of the damage that the war and his time in Azakaban had done to him. When she answered, "Well, I think you could use some fun, Sirius," he knew that she hadn't.

She turned to her children and asked briskly, "Have you all finished packing lunch?"

"Yes, Miss Peregrine," they answered almost in perfect unison, and Sirius raised his eyebrows, impressed. Alma ran a tight ship, all right.

"Go and get changed, then, and we'll go to the beach," she said, and they all bolted upstairs, cheering and chattering. A few of them shot curious glances at Sirius over their shoulders.

"Well, that's quite a brood you've got, Alma," he said, after the last of them had disappeared upstairs. "Eleven children – how do you manage so many by yourself?"

She smiled, but a look of sadness flickered in her dark eyes. "I used to have thirteen," she said quietly, "but I lost two."

His brow furrowed, concerned, but he could tell that she didn't want to talk about it, so he didn't ask. They went into the kitchen, where a huge packed picnic basket was waiting on the table, and she put his heather flowers in a glass of water.

"How are things back in your time?" she asked, and her voice was a bit hesitant, afraid of bad news. "How's Remus?"

"He's doing as well as he can. He wanted to come with me, but we didn't know what phase the moon was in here. He said to give you his regards. Dumbledore did, too. He said to tell you that if you ever want to come teach at Hogwarts, he'll – "

Alma's laughter cut him off. A warm, pleasant feeling spread through Sirius at the sound of her laughter, as if he'd just drunken Butterbeer.

"Hasn't Dumbledore given up on that yet?" she asked. "I told him I've no interest in teaching at Hogwarts."

"Actually, I think he's really hoping you'll join the Order of the Phoenix."

Alma's smile faltered at this, and she looked at Sirius sharply. He could see a shadow of the falcon in her now, just as he could see the wolf in Remus whenever he was very angry. He knew that he was approaching a dangerous subject, but he added recklessly, "We're at war, Alma. We need you."

"My _children_ need me, Sirius," she answered with an edge of warning in her voice. "If you've come here to try to recruit me–"

"I haven't," Sirius interrupted quickly. "I'm sorry." He sighed and fell silent for a moment, frustrated. Alma could do so much for the Order. Unlike with him, _her_ Animagus form wasn't known by all their enemies. But he had told himself again and again, all the way to the island, _Don't give her an ultimatum. Don't ask her to choose_. And now, right after arriving at her house, he had nearly done just that. He was still as impulsive as when he was a teenager. He clenched his fists and leaned back against the kitchen counter, and he could feel Alma watching him, though he couldn't bring himself to look at her.

"I'm sorry too, Sirius," she said, very quietly. "You know I've missed you. You know I would join the Order if I could, but I can't leave my children."

Sirius nodded. He knew. Oh yes, he knew full well that if she ever had to choose between him and her children, she would always choose them. But still... _I've missed you,_ she'd said. The words echoed inside his head, and an old, familiar feeling stirred warmly inside his chest.

"Miss me enough to – "

 _To let me spend the night?_ he'd intended to ask, but he was interrupted when the kitchen door swung open and a large striped beach towel floated in by itself, folded in half in mid-air.

"Miss Peregrine," a boy's voice asked out of nowhere, "may I go swimming naked, please?"

"All right, Millard," Alma sighed, "but I expect you to put your clothes back on as soon as we get home, and don't try sneaking around." She gestured to Sirius, whose eyes were probing the empty air around the towel, curious. "Introduce yourself to Sirius before he thinks I've taught you no manners at all."

The towel came closer, then Sirius felt the boy's hand brush against his. He found it and shook it. "Nice to meet you, I'm Millard and I'm ten," his voice said. Sirius guessed from the placement of his towel that he had it draped over his shoulder. "You can see what my peculiarity is – or rather, you _can't_!"

Sirius chuckled, then looked at Alma. "He's invisible? Really?" he asked, impressed, and Alma smiled and nodded. Sirius couldn't imagine being invisible all the time, without even needing James's old invisibility cloak.

"It's jolly fun being invisible," Millard said. "If I go about naked, nobody knows I'm there at all. I would do it all the time, but Miss Peregrine won't let me." His towel twirled as he spun in a circle, showing off, and bragged, "Witches and wizards have spells and things to make them invisible, but none of them can do it as good as _me_."

Sirius almost startled at this, but he caught himself. Alma's children had no idea that he was magical; they'd assumed that he was peculiar, like them. He glanced at her, and though no words passed between them, he could tell from her face that this was the cover story he should maintain for now.

"How do you know about witches and wizards?" he asked casually, as if this weren't a surprise.

"I've taught the children about magical society," Miss Peregrine explained. "I think it's important that they know the basics. We aren't Muggles, after all."

She glanced upstairs, then pulled her Time-Turner from her pocket and studied it. It glistened in the sunlight, catching Sirius's eye. He hadn't seen her Time-Turner in many years, but it still looked new. It was one-of-a-kind, designed to resemble a pocketwatch, rather than a hourglass like Hermione's, made from gold and engraved across the bottom with her full name in elaborate script. _Alma LeFay Peregrine_.

"Another eighty-six seconds," she murmured, pocketing it again, "and everyone else should be ready to leave."

"Miss Peregrine said being peculiar is like a cross between magical and muggle," Millard explained to Sirius. "But it's the _best_ thing to be, because we peculiars can do more than muggles can, and we're more special than witches and wizards."

Now Sirius gaped, unable to hide his surprise. Magical society had a very low opinion of peculiars; there was almost as much prejudice against them as against centaurs and goblins. In rare cases, peculiar children were born to magical families, but they were almost always scorned and sent away, like squibs, and many witches and wizards called them _one-trick ponies_ – or worse things, names that Sirius would never repeat to Alma's children. That was why most peculiars lived in time-loops like this, apart from society. He never in a hundred years expected a peculiar child to say that being peculiar was better than being magical.

"And how do you reckon that, Millard?" he managed to ask.

Millard laughed, as if this were a silly question. "It's obvious, isn't it? Any old witch or wizard could cast a spell to make fire or grow plants, but with us, only Olive can do fire, and only Fiona can do plants. Only _I_ can be invisible, and only Horace can see the future, and only Enoch can make Inferius."

Sirius stared at Alma. Had the woman gone mad, taking in children whose peculiarity was dark magic? "What?" he asked, alarmed. "You've got one who makes _Inferius_?"

"Yes, his _name_ is Enoch," she answered calmly, smiling. "My oldest boy. But I don't allow him to reanimate dead humans, only animals and objects. He can't do it for very long, but it does frighten some of the younger children, so I've told him to keep it the attic."

"Miss Peregrine says we're _irreplaceable_ ," Millard added, and even though Sirius couldn't see his face, he could tell that the boy was smiling.

At his words, something cold suddenly lodged itself in Sirius's chest, as if a Dementor had just passed by. He had never thought about it, but in a way, Millard was right. There were many common spells that nearly all witches and wizards could perform, but peculiars were much more unique. They only had one ability, but that ability was often theirs alone; it was difficult to find two of them who had the same power. _Irreplaceable_ – likely Alma had only said it to her children to make them feel better about themselves, but he knew that in her heart, they truly were irreplaceable, while Sirius... well, _he_ was just a common wizard. _He_ could be replaced.

"That's right," Alma said, smiling back at Millard, as if she knew exactly where he was. Perhaps she did, somehow, for she placed one arm perfectly around his shoulders, put her other hand on Sirius's arm, and led them back into the front hall, where, just as she'd predicted, the rest of the children were now descending the stairs.


	3. By the Seaside

If you have any suggestions/feedback for this story, I hope you'll leave a review. The later chapters haven't been set in stone, so a lot of things are still up in the air.

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Alma's house was near the western edge of the island, quite a long walk from the little muggle village around the harbor. A ferry sailed from the mainland to the harbor every day, and that was the only muggle means of reaching the island. It was extremely isolated, and Sirius knew that was the main reason why Alma chosen it as a home for her brood. Most of the shore was rocky and steep, but one spot near their house was a pleasant, sandy beach. Alma gave Sirius the picnic basket to carry while they walked there, and the rest of her children introduced themselves to him.

Enoch, the sulky teenage boy, was the one who could create Inferius. Olive, who was about the same age, had flaming red hair just like a Weasley, which was appropriate, since her peculiarity was fire. "Do you want to see my peculiarity?" Hugh, a younger boy, asked him, and without warning, he opened his mouth wide, startling Sirius when a swarm of bees flew out from inside his stomach.

The littlest girl, Claire, told Sirius her name, but when he asked, "And what's your peculiarity?" she just ducked her head and moved closer to Alma.

Alma took her hand and prompted her, "Claire, I'm sure you remember what the polite thing to say is. Use your words."

Claire raised her head to look at Sirius and said, "I prefer not to say, thank you," then looked to Miss Peregrine, who smiled and nodded approvingly.

Sirius blinked, puzzled, but he said simply, "Well, that's fair enough." The girl looked quite normal, and he wondered what her peculiarity might be. He hoped it wasn't some other sort of dark magic, like Legilimency. That might be even worse than creating Inferius. He thought of Snape and had to suppress a shudder.

"What's _your_ peculiarity, Sirius?" one of the children asked, distracting him, but another one cried, "No, don't tell us! Let's try to guess it!"

The children made dozens of excited guesses as they walked down the steep path to the beach. Could Sirius control the weather? Could he fly? Could he walk through walls? When the guesses started getting ridiculous – "Can you crack nuts in your teeth like a squirrel?" Claire asked – he decided that they could use some help.

"I'll give you a hint," he said, and he smiled at Alma over their heads. He still didn't understand why she let her children believe that she was an ymbryne, not a witch, but he would show her that he could play along with her cover story. "My peculiarity is like Miss Peregrine's."

"Are you a time-traveler?" Olive asked.

"No, not that one, her other peculiarity."

"You can turn into a bird!" Bronwyn cried, but Emma corrected her, "Bronwyn, only girl peculiars can turn into birds, remember?"

"What sort of animal are you, Sirius?" Millard asked.

"I'll show you," he grinned.

They had reached the beach now. The children were already dressed to go swimming, but Sirius pulled off his shoes and shirt nonchalantly, as if he wasn't aware that all the children were watching him, curious. He liked having an audience. He took a few steps away from them, the sand hot under his bare feet, and transformed. He knew that his Animagus form could be frightening – a very large, very black dog with a rough coat – but Alma's children just _ooh_ 'ed and exclaimed, impressed.

He showed her children a good time. He discovered, much to his surprise, that there were still traces of a child in _him_. The fun-loving, trouble-making boy that he was at Hogwarts had been buried deep down in him during his years in Azkaban, but now, that boy seemed to float back up to the surface – and he was still as eager to have fun as he ever was. He swam and splashed in the waves with Alma's children and made up games for them to play. He transformed from a human to a dog and back again so many times that he lost count, for the children found his "peculiarity," as they believed it to be, endlessly fascinating.

"Isn't it funny," Emma said at one point, "that you dog-paddle when you're a dog but not when you're human?"

Sirius had never thought much about peculiars before; he wasn't prejudiced against him, like so many witches and wizards, but he'd never found them very interesting, either. But as he spent time with these children, he discovered that peculiars were fascinating too, in their own way. Emma's peculiarity was air, which allowed her to stay underwater for as long as she liked. Hugh ran out of the water and up the beach a few times to let his bees out over a patch of clover that Fiona grew for him.

Sirius was large enough as a dog to let the littlest children ride on his back, and he was strong enough as a man to pick most of them up and throw them into the water, which they loved. He first time he threw Bronwyn, she came up laughing and said, "Ooh, that was fun! Shall I do it to you now, Sirius?"

He thought that she was joking, but he should've known better. Bronwyn's peculiarity, he discovered, was super strength. When he laughed and said, "Yeah, Bronwyn, you do it to me," she grabbed him around his legs and flung him upwards with ease. Her arms were too short for her to throw him very high, but it was high enough that he flailed his arms and legs through the air like a prat until he crashed back down in the surf. Alma, watching them from the sand, tried not to smile, but a few of her children laughed so hard that they fell over.

To get back at them, he transformed again and paddled back to the shore, where he planted his paws on the sand and shook his coat dry, which sent them running away shrieking. "Now we're going to smell like wet dog," Horace said, brushing the dog hair off him, but he was laughing.

Occasionally while they swam, Sirius stood up in the water and looked around – at the deep blue waves crested with white foam, at the hills of the island dotted with sheep – and for really the first time since escaping from Azkaban, he felt _free_. Maybe it was being here in the time-loop, a world away from Grimmauld Place and the war against Voldemort. Maybe it was the children. He had been jealous of them at first, for having Alma all to themselves, but they were good kids, and he couldn't hold onto his envy.

Or maybe it was Alma. Sirius caught her eyeing his bare chest appreciatively at one point, and he knew that she was hungry for him. She would never complain, but she had to get lonely, taking care of eleven children by herself. Sirius knew loneliness all too well. He slipped once and called her _Alma_ instead of _Miss Peregrine_ , and she called him _Padfoot_ the first time she saw him as a dog, but otherwise, they controlled themselves very well. Her children had no idea that they were old lovers, no idea that Sirius was counting down the hours until tonight, when they were all asleep and he could have Alma to himself.

Sirius felt years younger, playing with the children on the beach. Their fun was only interrupted twice. The first time was when Hugh got a sharp swimmer's cramp in his leg and floundered hard in the waves, nearly going under. Sirius picked him up and handed him off to Alma on the sand, Hugh wincing and repeating _ow ow ow_ the whole time. But he stopped as soon as Alma rubbed his leg and said gently, "You're all right, Hugh. Come sit with me and rest for a minute." The second time was when Claire got sand in her eyes and cried from the sting of it. But she stopped when Alma put an arm around her and said, "I know it hurts, Claire, but open your eyes and I can get that sand out for you."

Watching her with them, Sirius thought back to the long rounds that he'd argued with Molly Weasley. The two of them were always butting heads over Harry; Sirius wanted him to be told more about what was happening, but Molly thought he should be told nothing. _"Meaning I'm irresponsible?" "Meaning you've been known to act rashly, Sirius."_ Remembering those words, Sirius sighed. Maybe Molly was right. Certainly, Sirius knew how to give these peculiar children a fun time, but when they needed anything other than fun, he didn't have the faintest idea of what to do, except give them back to Alma, who, it seemed, could soothe whatever troubled them.

He knew that he had changed during those long years in Azkaban, but now, he realized that she had changed, too. She had developed such a way with children, such a devotion to this odd brood of peculiar boys and girls. They filled up her days so completely that Sirius felt that cold certainty again that there was no room left in Alma's life for him.


	4. Catching Up

This chapter is so darn talky that it almost makes me cringe. But Sirius and Alma have a lot they need to talk about.

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Sirius and the children splashed and floated and played in the water until Alma made them take a break for lunch. Swimming had worked up an appetite in all of them, and they sat in a circle on the sand and devoured sandwiches and fruits and vegetables, grown by Fiona, and biscuits. Sirius found out Claire's peculiarity then: it was only a sharp-fanged backmouth that she used for eating. She lifted her curls and held food to the back of her head and ate more that way than the rest of them. They all ate ravenously – all except for the two strange little ones, _the twins_ , everyone else called them, as if they had no real names. They stayed down by the waterline, digging in the wet sand.

"What about those two?" Sirius asked, jerking his head towards them.

"The twins don't eat," Alma answered.

Sirius felt an prickling of unease. The twins hadn't spoken a single word, either, and their white costumes concealed them completely. Were they even human?

"And, er, what's their peculiarity?" he asked.

"They're borgons," Bronwyn answered around a bite of her sandwich.

"Gorgons, Bronwyn," Alma corrected, "and don't talk with your mouth full, please. Fiona, here, you need another napkin." She passed one to Fiona, who took it and wiped some mustard off her chin.

Sirius had stopped eating. "Gorgons?" he repeated, staring at Alma. Had she lost her mind to be taking in gorgons? "You think it's safe to keep a pair of _g_ _orgons_ around children?"

" _They're_ children too, Sirius," she answered, and her black eyes flashed warning look at him over Hugh's head.

"They're dangerous," he argued. "They ought to be..." but he stopped. They ought to be... where? It occurred to him to wonder, where _would_ two little gorgons have wound up in his magical world? As test subjects in a Care of Magical Creatures class? Outcast from society? He wasn't sure, but he knew that they would never have been cared for alongside human children, as they were here in Alma's loop.

Some of the children were looking at him reproachfully now, and Sirius realized that he'd been talking as if he were magical, instead of peculiar. As tolerant as he believed himself to be – hell, two of his best mates were a werewolf and a half-giant – some prejudices of the magical world had still crept into him. But Olive smiled at him and said with an air of smoothing things over, "Miss Peregrine says our peculiarities don't have to be dangerous, as long as we use common sense about them."

Lunchtime was followed by an unexpected bonus: time alone with Alma, something that Sirius hadn't hoped for until nightfall. She wouldn't allow her children to back to swimming right after they'd eaten, and she insisted they take some time to rest. The older ones didn't look happy about it, but they knew better than to argue with her, and they were tired from swimming so hard. They moved their towels to a shady spot further up the beach and laid down in a warm pile like puppies, their long, gangly limbs all entangled. Claire fell asleep with her head pillowed on Enoch's broad back, and Fiona's braids flopped in Horace's face, and Olive slept with one arm across Emma, which was necessary to keep Emma from floating away.

Alma watched over them until they were all asleep, while Sirius picked up a few crumbled napkins that they had left lying on the sand. She sat in the shade of the cliff, not far from her children, and gestured for Sirius to join her. He took a deep breath as he sank down beside her. They were alone at last – and on this beautiful beach, too. If her children weren't sleeping nearby, he would lay her down on the warm sand right now. But instead he said softly, "So... they think you're an ymbryne."

Alma hesitated, then raised her head and answered steadily, "Yes, it's better this way."

Sirius was rarely at a loss for words, but he didn't know what to say to _that_. He knew that Alma was very protective of her brood, but this was extreme even by her standards. She could only pass as an ymbryne because she had learned to imitate an ymbryne's powers – first by becoming an Animagus in bird form, then by learning to work a Time-Turner better than any witch or wizard in Britain. How could she not consider it lying to her children to let them believe that she was something she wasn't? And had she really never done any other magic around them? Merlin's Beard, giving up magic might be even worse than getting unjustly imprisoned in Azkaban for twelve years.

Alma pulled out her Time-Turner and flipped it open as she went on, "You know, other peculiars think being an ymbryne is about how well you can manipulate time, or what sort of bird you can turn into, but that actually has very little to do with it. Being an ymbryne is about caring for children."

"Don't you ever do magic around them?" Sirius asked, his voice raising angrily. "Don't you ever do magic _at all_?"

"Of course I do. I use my Time-Turner every single day. I become a bird almost every day, too."

"But you can do so much more than that!" he snapped, almost yelling. Her skills were going to waste here in this time-loop. _She_ was going to waste, baby-sitting these peculiar children when she could be helping the Order.

But Alma remained strangely calm at his outburst. She looked away across the sea and said something that Sirius couldn't catch.

"What?"

"I said, there _is_ nothing more," she repeated. Her voice was reverent, as if she were praying. "There is nothing more important than caring for these children, not for me. It is not the duty of an ymbryne, but the privilege. As long as I'm caring for these children, I am their ymbryne, in every sense of the word."

Sirius knew that he should back off, but he couldn't. He bared his teeth like a dog and challenged, "Yeah? What about defeating Voldemort? That doesn't strike you as more important?"

She turned her head sharply towards him like a falcon and answered, "Sirius, some of my children had to run away from home when they were much younger than sixteen."

That hurt more than he expected, and they fell into silence again. Sirius thought that he'd long gotten over his family disowning him, but being back at Grimmauld Place had stirred up too many memories. He hadn't learned until he returned to his old home that his own mother had burned his name off the Black family tree. He glanced back at Alma's children, sleeping on the sand. They all seemed so happy, so well-adjusted; it hadn't occurred to him that some of them must have unhappy pasts, too. They probably had hard-knock stories that could rival his.

When Alma spoke again, her voice was gentle, almost as if she were speaking to her children. "Did Remus tell you... well, he and I didn't really stay in touch, I'm afraid, after you... after..." But her voice faltered, and she stopped short.

Sirius nodded. "He mentioned that," he muttered. "He said seeing each other reminded you both too much of me."

Alma pressed one hand to her eyes and said, her voice trembling, "I feel terrible for saying this now, but it was like... like you'd died, Sirius – _worse_ than if you'd died, because everything had been called into question, and magic... well, suddenly, it just didn't seem so magical anymore. I know it must be hard to believe, but giving up magic was actually quite easy for me."

Sirius's breath caught in his chest. Was she saying that she'd given up magic because of _him_? Had his supposed betrayal hurt her that much? For a moment, he couldn't breathe, but then he reminded himself: the reason why she had left the magical world for the peculiar one didn't matter anymore, did it? All that mattered was that she was never coming back. During his years in Azkaban, her children had surpassed Sirius in her affections.

"And you know, you'd be surprised," she went on, her voice steady again. "Peculiars are capable of much more than the magical world realizes."

"Yeah? Like what?"

She smiled smugly and bragged, "My children can resist the Imperius Curse."

Sirius stared at her, debating whether to believe this. Joking about her childrens' abilities wouldn't be like her at all, but how could this possibly be true?

"Alma, most witches and wizards can't even resist that curse. _I_ can't, and _I've_ bloody cast on it people." He had too, a few times during the first war. Mad-Eye Moody had taught it to him.

"I know. I can't either, but my children can."

"But how?" Sirius pressed skeptically. "They can't even do magic."

"The Imperius Curse is a means of controlling people. Giving them orders. And _my_ children don't take orders from anyone but _me_. It's that way with all peculiar children and their ymbrynes."

"And what makes you so sure they could actually resist it? Has anyone Imperiused them?"

"No, of course not, but I assure you, the curse wouldn't work on them." She paused, then grinned at him and added, "I suppose if Dumbledore were here, he'd start going on about love and how it's the most powerful form of magic."

Sirius laughed. "Yeah, he loves waxing poetic about all that mushy stuff, the old fart." It felt good to be silly for a moment.

That was when Alma pulled her pipe from her dress pocket and lit it. Sirius's pulse raced, and the rich, warm smell of the tobacco nearly undid him. She still smoked a pipe, and thank God for that, for Alma's pipe had been one of the sexiest things about her. Often he thought of it when he needed to summon a Patronus – how the taste lingered on his lips and tongue, how the smell used to cling to his clothes after they'd made love.

"Alma, when I was in Azkaban, did you ever... I mean... was there..." He couldn't bring himself to finish the question, but Alma knew what he meant.

"Was there someone else?" she asked gently, and Sirius swallowed hard and nodded, bracing himself for the answer.

But Alma shook her head. "There hasn't been anyone but you, Sirius," she said softly. "I really don't have time for anyone but my children anymore." She paused, then raised one eyebrow and smiled sideways at him. "And besides," she went on, her voice now low and sultry, "I'm only interested in wizards whose Animagus form is a black dog."

Sirius grinned wickedly. "How lucky for you," he whispered, moving closer to her, "because _I'm_ only interested in witches whose Animagus form is a peregrine falcon."

He remembered that years ago, before Alma left the magical world, one of her pet peeves was when anyone referred to her Animagus form as a _bird_. At Lily and James's wedding, he had introduced her to someone – he couldn't remember who now, maybe Emmeline Vance – saying, "And she's an Animagus as a b–" but she'd cut him off with, "As a peregrine falcon."

He had brought her as his date to Lily and James's wedding. He remembered dancing with her there, that heady, breathless joy of holding her in his arms and twirling her around. As proud as he was of being a Gryffindor, Sirius wasn't so brave at all, or he would've proposed to Alma when he'd had the chance. If only he had done it, if only he had married her then... Lily and James would've made both of them Harry's guardians, and Sirius would've told Alma when they made Peter their Secret-Keeper, and even if he'd still gone to Azkaban, Alma just might've gotten to raise Harry – she had such a way with children, even back then, and...

Sirius closed his eyes. It hurt almost as much as the Cruciatus Curse to imagine how different everything might be now.

* * *

These two have been patient, so I'm thinking about giving them some time alone in a more private setting in the next chapter. ;)


	5. Pillow Talk

I know it's been a while since my last update on this story - thanks so much to all my readers for your patience! And since Sirius and Alma have been patient too, in this chapter, I finally give them some alone time. ;)

* * *

They stayed on the beach – swimming and drifting in the water, or playing on the sand – until sunset. As darkness fell, Alma made them gather up their things and start home. The youngest children were so tired that they had to be carried back to the house. Enoch carried Claire on his back, and Alma carried Bronwyn in her arms. The girl started out trying to walk, but her feet dragged and her eyelids drooped, and of course Alma noticed right away.

"Bronwyn, you look almost asleep on your feet," she said. "Come here and I'll carry you," and without even breaking the rhythm of her stride, she bent down and picked her up. Bronwyn slipped very naturally into her arms, as if they had done this a hundred times before – and maybe they had. She wrapped one arm around Alma's neck, laid her head down on her shoulder, and fell asleep there with a contented little sigh.

Sirius would've carried one of the kids home, but Alma gave him the picnic basket again, and he sensed that as much as the kids had had fun playing with him, they wouldn't have wanted him holding them. He wasn't a member of this family.

Hugh edged closer to Sirius as they all walked the path back to the house. "Miss Peregrine," he asked, "is Sirius going to stay the night with us? Millard and I would be glad to let him stay in our room."

"That's very thoughtful of you, boys," Alma said, smiling approvingly at them from over Bronwyn's shoulder, "but I think Sirius would be more comfortable in the parlor."

Sirius said nothing, but he couldn't help grinning at this, and he began to walk with a tiny spring in his step. He and Alma both knew that he wouldn't be spending the night in the parlor.

That evening, it seemed to take _years_ for all of Alma's children to have their baths and go to bed. Sirius stayed downstairs, pacing the floor of the parlor. There was a fireplace there, and he considered hooking it up to the Floo Network, just to check in with Remus or one of the Weasleys for a minute, but he decided against it. It wasn't just seeing Alma again that made him love her time-loop so much. It was also being away from the magical world and all the problems that plagued it. There, Death-Eaters were using Unforgivable Curses and killing Muggles for sport, but here, the biggest problem was...

"I can't find my teddy," came little Claire's voice from upstairs. "Miss Peregrine, have you seen my teddy?"

Sirius smirked, and a bittersweet feeling spread in his chest. That was the biggest problem here, a child's missing teddy bear. For a moment, Sirius thought he understood Alma's devotion to her brood. Life with them was so simple, so peaceful.

 _Finally_ , the big house settled and grew quiet upstairs, and Alma came down into the parlor, where Sirius had stretched out on the couch with a blanket, pretending to sleep. She said nothing, but she smiled and silently wagged one finger, motioning for him to follow her. He threw off the blanket and leapt to his feet.

On the second and third floors, she peered into each of the bedrooms, making sure that her children were all asleep. The halls were dim, and Alma's dark dress should've been hard to make out, yet Sirius's gaze never lost her. His eyes were drawn to her like a magnet as she led him to her own quarters at the end of the hall. As soon as they were inside, Alma turned off the lights and locked the door.

They hadn't been intimate with each other – or anyone else – in years, but their time apart melted away from their bodies as they tumbled into bed together. There was no shyness or awkward hesitations. There was only the dark, moonlight room, only the warm, familiar feeling of Alma's skin against Sirius. Their movements were as smooth and comfortable as if they made love every day.

Alma would never admit that she grew lonely sometimes, taking care of so many children by herself, but Sirius could tell that she'd been lonely, and that she'd been hungry for him. It was obvious in the depth of her kisses, the arch of her back, the hot press of her cheek against his. She bit the falcon's feather tattoo on his shoulder, which he'd gotten in her honor years ago, and trailed her long fingernails down the tattoos on his chest with in a slow, delicious way that made him shudder. Her body responded to everything that he did, and he murmured her name in her ear and against her neck over and over – _Alma, Alma, Alma,_ as if it were magic spell – for each time, it seemed to increase her passion. How often did she hear her own first name anymore?

Sirius thought that perhaps he was still dreaming, when he woke up before dawn the next morning with Alma's head on his shoulder, with her soft, naked body pressed against the length of his. They stirred and stretched lazily, and then Alma drew the blanket around herself and got out of bed. Sirius watched her search through her clothes and pull her Time-Turner from her pocket. More than anything, that told Sirius how desperate, how impatient, she had been to be with him. She hadn't even taken her precious Time-Turner from her pocket before she undressed.

"I can do another reset and give us more time," she said in a low, breathy voice that made Sirius hungry for her all over again. "I can give us... another hour. Anything more, and it will disrupt the children's sleeping schedules."

The early morning light creeping through Alma's curtains dimmed as she turned back time and the sun slipped down behind the horizon again. Sirius grinned as she climbed back into bed and nestled against him. It was like living in a dream to linger in bed together, kissing and talking, a luxury that neither of them had enjoyed for years.

"Remind me, Sirius, how many children do the Weasleys have?" Alma asked him.

"Seven. Six boys, one girl. Their youngest boy Ron's the same age as Harry." He sighed, wistful. "You should see them together, Alma. Thick as thieves, just like me and James were."

Alma's brow furrowed, and she looked away out the window. "I just can't imagine how Molly does it," she murmured, shaking her head. "How she raises so many children."

Sirius titled his head at her. "Well, what do you call what _you're_ doing?"

"I don't _raise_ children. I take care of them."

Sirius almost asked her what the different was, but then he realized: Alma's children never grew older. They never would, as long as she kept resetting her Time-Turner, and technically, you couldn't raise children who never grew older. You could only take care of them. The idea suddenly struck him as sad. Wouldn't her kids like to get older? And wouldn't she like to someday see a child she'd cared for reach adulthood? But Sirius decided not to raise the question with her. He knew Alma would be adamant that none of her children would ever get older.

He took a long, appreciate glance over her again. Of course her body wasn't as smooth as it had been when they were teenagers, but still, the years had been kind to her. Her skin was still firm and soft, with none of the scars or marks that his bore – as bare as a fresh piece of parchment.

"You don't have a tattoo for me," Sirius said suddenly. "We talked about getting matching tattoos for each other once."

"Mm, I remember," Alma said quietly. "I was going to get one for you, but then..." Her voice trailed off, and that sad look moved into her eyes again.

Sirius didn't want to dwell on unhappy memories now. He tossed the bedsheet aside and brazenly got up naked to search through his own clothes and locate his wand. "I could give you one right now," he offered. "I know the spell to make tattoos. It's so easy, a first-year could learn it – not that Dumbledore would ever let it be taught at Hogwarts."

"I should certainly hope not," Alma said. She sat up in bed, slipped the sheet off her shoulder, and turned it towards Sirius – her right shoulder, the same place where Sirius had the dark blue feather tattoo. It went without saying between them that she would have a pawprint tattoo, for his Animagus form.

"Don't make it too big," she cautioned, and he didn't. In less than five seconds, there was a small pawprint on her shoulder, exactly like his pawprints when he was in dog form, black against Alma's smooth porcelain skin. Sirius pressed his lips to it, relishing in the permanence of it. Magical tattoos never faded the way he'd heard Muggle tattoos did. Alma might live in this loop with her children for a thousand years, none of them ever changing or growing older, and that pawprint would always be there on her shoulder, reminding her of him.

Sirius was dressed again and back downstairs in the parlor by the time Alma's children woke up. He would have to go back to calling her Miss Peregrine in front of them. He would have to pretend that nothing happened last night. He would have to pretend a lot of things, but it comforted him to know that for last night at least, she had been _Alma,_ not _Miss Peregrine._ For last night at least, she had been his, not theirs.


	6. Until Next Time

I'm sorry that this final chapter has a kinda sad note to it, but I wanted to keep this story canon-compliant, and that unfortunately means that Sirius and Alma couldn't get a happy ending. Thanks so much to everyone who's read and reviewed.

* * *

Alma, of course, didn't betray that anything had happened last night, either. Sirius ate breakfast with her and the children that morning, and she down at the table looking completely prim and proper, not one hair out of place. There was no sign at all of the wanton who'd clawed his back just a few hours ago.

The younger kids tried to convince Sirius to stay longer, or even indefinitely, but Alma reminded them, "Children, we've spoken about this. Sirius is just visiting."

"I suppose you have to be getting back to your own loop," Olive said, buttering a slice of toast. "What's your loop like, Sirius? Are there many peculiars there?"

"No, I don't live in a loop," he answered without thinking. He didn't realize until he saw the surprise on the children's faces that this must be unusual for their kind.

"Really?" Horace asked. He leaned forward, curious. "I thought all peculiars lived in a loop. Where do you live, then?"

Sirius hesitated. If he answered that with a lie, it would only lead to more questions from the children, and more lies that he'd have to make up. How much longer could he keep up this cover story that he was peculiar? Sirius had never been good at thinking on his feet – but he _had_ always been good at acting on impulse.

He set down his fork and took a deep breath. "Actually, I'm not peculiar," he said, his voice slow but clear. "I'm magical."

Emma's eyes bulged wide. Hugh choked on his orange juice. Fiona and Olive dropped their forks. Bronwyn's mouth fell open, and some of the scrambled egg that she'd been chewing nearly fell out, before Alma said, "Bronwyn, close your mouth, please. Hugh, here, you need another napkin." Alma's tone was normal – she probably didn't ever let her children see her unruffled, no matter what happened – but she shot a quick, furious glare at Sirius that was almost as bad as facing down a Dementor. He knew that she hadn't wanted him telling her children this.

The shock of this revelation stunned the children into silence for a moment, then several of them began talking at once.

"Sirius, are you really? You're a wizard? I never knew a wizard before."

"But – but you _can't_ be a wizard! You're too nice!"

"I thought witches and wizards hated peculiars."

"Yes, I thought they called us one-trick ponies."

A flush of shame crept up Sirius's neck. It was true that magicals and peculiars had a bad history between them, and he wasn't about to discuss that Alma's children, no matter how many questions they asked. He glanced at Alma for help, but she glared daggers at him and said nothing. _You made this mess, Sirius, now you can bloody well get yourself out of it,_ he could almost hear her thinking.

Sirius shifted uneasily in his chair, as all the children watched him, waiting for an answer. "Well, witches and wizards aren't perfect people," he said carefully. "Some of them get very full of themselves, just because they can do more than one kind of magic. And some of them don't think very highly of peculiars, that's true, but we aren't _all_ like that."

Olive tilted her head thoughtfully, then nodded, but some of the children – Fiona and Enoch worst of all – were still looking at Sirius very warily, as if he weren't the same man that they'd had such fun with just yesterday.

There was a moment of silence, then Claire spoke up, "I didn't know witches and wizards could turn into animals."

"Most can't. I'm one of only a few who can."

"Do you have a, you know... a-a _wand_?" Millard asked, hesitating as if _wand_ were a dirty word.

"Yeah, I've got a wand. All witches and wizards do. It's how we do magic."

"Miss Peregrine, is he putting us on?" Horace asked.

Alma decided to help him out, finally. "Of course not, Horace. I wouldn't let him do that."

She's _the one who's putting you on,_ Sirius thought, and he had to jam his lips together to keep from saying it. She's _the one pretending to be an ymbryne when she's actually bloody witch herself._

The rest of breakfast passed uncomfortably, and after they'd eaten, Alma assigned a few of her children to clear the table, a few more to wash the dishes, and told the rest of them to give Sirius some time alone to pack. Sirius returned to the parlor, where he'd allegedly spent the night, grateful for that. He didn't need time to pack – he'd brought very little with him – but he _did_ need some time alone. Time to brace himself for leaving this idyllic loop to return to the war-torn magical world. Time to figure out how he was going to say goodbye to Alma.

Inside the parlor, he let out a deep sigh, but almost as soon as he'd closed the door behind him, it opened again. Sirius turned to see two of the kids, Fiona and Bronwyn, sneak inside after him. Bronwyn looked anxious, and she tugged on Fiona's arm, whispering, "Fiona, we oughtn't, Miss Peregrine said to leave him alone." Sirius could tell that this was daring for them, disobeying one of Alma's orders.

But Fiona was looking hard at Sirius, her hands jammed in the pockets of her gardening clothes. She had been looking at him strangely ever since he blurted out that he was magical, but she hadn't said a word. Now, she asked suddenly, "Did you go to _H_ _ogwarts_?"

She said the school's familiar name like an accusation, and Sirius sensed that she hadn't learned it from Alma. "How do know about Hogwarts, Fiona?" he asked quietly.

Fiona bit her lip, then began talking very quickly, as if she'd been wanting to say this for years. "I was supposed to _go_ to Hogwarts. My parents were magical. When I started being able to control plants, they were so proud of me. They said I'd make a very fine witch and when I went to Hogwarts, I'd graduate top of my Herbology class."

She paused, her expression darkening. Bronwyn looked at her, her brown eyes full of worry, then turned and slipped out of the room. "But then... they started trying to get me to do other sorts of magic, and I couldn't. I could only do plants. My mother didn't—" But Fiona stopped short. She still couldn't talk about the worst of it, at least not to Sirius.

 _"_ _I don_ _'_ _t understand it,_ _"_ _her mother had said._ _"_ _Why would she only be able to do one sort of m_ _agic_ _, unles_ _s..."_ _F_ _iona_ _would never forget the horror on her mother_ _'_ _s face, the disgust in her voice, the way she took a step back, as if F_ _iona_ _had some horrible, contagious disease._ _"..._ _dear God, she_ _'_ _s not a w_ _itch_ _. She_ _'_ _s a p_ _eculiar_ _._ _"_

Fiona drew a shuddering breath and went on, her eyes smarting with tears, "They said having a peculiar daughter would be even worse than having a squib."

Sirius grimaced. Fiona had no idea how well he could relate to being unwanted by your own parents. It sounded like she came from one of the old Pure-blood families, which meant... Sirius almost gasped. Merlin's beard, this girl was probably related to _him_.

"What was your family name, Fiona?" he asked urgently, but she shook her head.

"They did a spell on me so I'd never be able to say it again," she choked out. "They didn't want anyone ever finding out about me. I don't remember how they found Miss Peregrine. They – they put an advertisement in the _The_ _D_ _aily_ _P_ _rophet_ for an ymbryne, I think. B-but I remember she came to our house, and m-my father shoved me at her and my mother said, 'Sh-she's yours now, don't try to give her b-back,' and..."

But Fiona couldn't talk anymore. She was crying too hard. Sirius didn't know what to do, but luckily, just then, Bronwyn came back into the room with Alma. Alma didn't even say anything. She just held out one arm, and Fiona went to her and buried her face in the front of Alma's blouse, sobbing. A wave of guilt washed over Sirius; he wouldn't have blurted out that he was magical if he'd known that it would bring back memories like these.

But Alma seemed to perform some special magic of her own. She held Fiona against her and let her cry for a while, cupping the back of her head, then crouched down a bit to whisper in her ear. Sirius couldn't make out the words, but they clearly had the right effect; the girl had seemed utterly heartbroken, but within a few minutes, she was calm again, and Alma was wiping her face. When she asked her if she was feeling better, Fiona actually smiled and nodded.

"Good girl," Alma said, wiping her face again. She shot a furtive glance at Sirius over her head, then added, "Why don't you go outside to your garden and see what you feel like growing?" As Fiona left the room, Alma gently shooed Bronwyn out after her, whispering, "Bronwyn, stay with Fiona for a while, all right?"

Sirius let out another deep sigh once they were alone again. "Merlin's beard," he muttered, still a bit shocked. "I'm sorry, Alma. I didn't know – "

"It wasn't all your fault, Sirius," she interrupted him, looking a little guilty herself. "I keep them so sheltered here, I... I fear I've made it hard for them to cope whenever anything different happens."

Sirius couldn't help his curiosity. "What's Fiona's family name?"

"I'm her family now – the other children and I."

"But is she related to me?"

"Sirius, practically every Pure-blood family in England is related to you." Alma paused, then added sadly, "And if she is, what difference does it really make?"

"Well... none, I guess," he admitted. Still, he racked his brain, trying to remember any rumors of a Pure-blood couple who'd had a peculiar daughter and given her away. But he couldn't remember hearing any. Fiona's parents, whoever they were, had done too good a job at hushing it up. Likely they'd burned her name off their family tree too, just as Sirius's mother had. He had a sudden feeling that he should leave this loop before he did any more damage here.

Alma's children all gathered in front of the house to see him off. They'd apparently been talking amongst themselves about him, because Horace stepped forward and said, "We've decided we still like you, Sirius, even if you are magical."

"Yes, you're the good sort of magical," Hugh agreed, a few bees flying from his mouth as he spoke.

"Thanks," Sirius grinned. "I think when I get back to where I'm from, I'll work on convincing all the other wizards and witches that peculiars are all right." And he decided that he really would, too. If he lived to see the end of this wretched war and became a free man again, he would take it up as his cause, just like Hermione and her crusade for House-Elf liberation. He would form a Society of the Respect of Peculiars, or something like that, so help him.

Alma surprised him by actually hugging him before he left – even if it was only a quick, one-handed hug around his shoulders – and as she did, she whispered in his ear, "I'll miss you, Sirius. Next time you come, bring that godson of yours."

Sirius grinned brighter. "Yeah, I'll do that, Alma," he whispered back. How he loved the thought of bringing Harry to this loop and introducing him to Alma. Alma hadn't seen Harry since he was a baby, before Lily and James were killed. Sirius would tell him all about Alma, how she'd been a friend of his parents, and her history with Sirius – although perhaps he'd omit a few details there – and they would come back to this island together and have a fine holiday. Harry would love this loop, if only because it was 1943 here and nobody knew who he was.

That vision danced in Sirius's head like a perfect dream, and it kept him smiling as he walked across the island back to the loop-entrance in the mild September sunshine. He had no way of knowing that it would never be.


End file.
